Chapter Twenty-Three
The sooner she kissed him, the sooner she’d be through this nightmare, Cara told herself. Niamh combed Cara’s hair—something they did several times a day while she wore it down in an effort to win over Sitric. Unfortunately, Diarmid appeared correct, and Sitric warmed to her considerably when she left it loose.
All she had to do was kiss him. Kissing Diarmid had been easy. And pleasant. So pleasant that she found she couldn’t dwell on the memory for long or she’d lose all nerve to continue with Sitric.
“How did you know you loved Dallan?” Cara asked as Niamh worked through the multitude of tangles.
Niamh thought for a moment, looking wistful. “He always makes me feel good about myself,” she said at last. “When I’m with him, I feel as though I could do anything. And he makes me laugh,” she added with a grin. “He’s always there for me, even when I’m at my worst, and I try to do the same for him.”
Diarmid had been there for her since the moment she’d met him. He’d seen her at her worst—when she was so broken by Torna that she could hardly bear to be near anyone—and had helped her until she began to heal.
“It takes time,” Niamh continued when Cara sat in silence. “You’ve only just met Sitric.”
If only she’d been asking about Sitric. “How long did it take for you to know you loved Dallan?”
Niamh bit her lip, tossing a long, golden braid over her shoulder as she moved to comb the front portion of Cara’s tresses. “Well, that’s a bit different. I was young, and he was my first love—”
“How long?”
“About a day,” Niamh sighed. “But it took seven years for us to make it work, even knowing we loved each other.”
A day seemed short, even to Cara, and seven years—interminable. “But you knew the day you met him?”
“I did,” she admitted. “But most people don’t. Finn courted Eva for months before they realized they were in love.”
“Isn’t Illadan married as well?” Cara thought she remembered him mentioning his wife over dinner the other day.
Niamh chuckled. “To Finn’s little sister, aye.”
Cara turned to her wide-eyed. “No,” she breathed conspiratorially.
“Yes.” Niamh nodded. “And she’s carrying already. You should have seen Finn’s face when he found out.”
“About the marriage or the babe?”
“Both,” she laughed. “He’s usually a gentle soul, but I thought he might attack Illadan. There,” she declared, setting the comb on a small bedside table, “all finished.”
Cara thanked her, standing and stretching. Walking out of her room and into the main hall, she found Sitric waiting for her. They’d been meeting most mornings, going on walks about his holding and the town in an attempt to grow acquainted. Cara certainly felt that she knew Sitric better, but he still never brought flutters to her stomach or made her heart race.
Not like Diarmid.
Every time she saw Sitric, every time he grabbed her hand or hugged her, Cara could hear Diarmid’s clandestine confession. Feel his hands on her hips, so big that his fingers nearly touched over her stomach. Taste his mouth against hers.
Maybe that’s what it would be like with Sitric as well. She’d only ever kissed Diarmid. For all Cara knew, kisses were much the same no matter the people involved.
“Ready?” Sitric asked, taking her hand. “I’ve somewhere to show you that I think you’ll find enchanting.”
They walked the way they always went, out of Sitric’s holding and down the road leading into the heart of Dyflin. Countless houses came and went, the ship masts rising to their right in a harbor hidden from view. Children ran laughing through the buildings and along the roadways. Sitric was oddly quiet, not asking any questions as he usually did. He stopped outside a hall marked as a metalsmith’s shop, opening the door for Cara and following her inside.
Two guards stood at the door, nodding to Sitric as they passed. She expected a blast of heat, thinking there would be a smith’s forge running somewhere inside. Instead, she found a window-lined hall, filled with trestle tables where men sat on stools bent over their work. Scattered over the table were bowls and bins filled with bits of metal, small tools, and more gemstones than Cara had seen in one place.
“Well that explains the guards,” she said.
“Indeed,” Sitric agreed. “Though we have very few attempts at thievery.”
A small fire burned in the center of the hall, but nothing like a billowing forge. Several craftsmen waved and greeted Sitric, who took Cara’s hand to wander down the first row of tables.
“This is where they design jewelry, brooches, inlaid belts, bowls, hilts,” Sitric explained, gesturing to many of the items as they appeared on the tables. “Anything that requires finesse and sparkles enough to tempt a dragon, they craft here.”
Cara inspected a large cross, crafted of gold and inlaid with rubies, that a man was polishing. “They’re beautiful,” she told him. “It must require a great deal of training to make such fine designs.”
“It does indeed. And this is where craftsmen from all over the island come to do just that.” He looked over her shoulder at the golden cross. “You favor that one?”
She jumped back, hitting his chest before stepping to the side. “No,” she replied. “I mean, yes, it’s beautiful, but—”
“Which one do you like, then?”
Cara’s stomach swirled into a knot tighter than any sailor could render. “They’re all beautiful,” she hedged, sensing now the purpose of the excursion.
“So I should buy them all?” His grin was full of mischief and charm.
But he wasn’t Diarmid.
In that moment, Cara realized he never would be. “You deserve someone who will smile with you,” she said softly.
He took her hand, pulling her away from the tables. “And you deserve someone who will make you smile,” he replied. “That you even would say such a thing tells me there is hope for this betrothal yet. Perhaps in time I’ll see you laugh.”
“Even before—” she began, catching herself. “I’ve never been much given to laughter and smiles. My mother always chastised me for my serious manner, even when I was small.”
“You’re still small,” he teased. She certainly was compared with Sitric. And with Diarmid. “And though appreciated, laughter is not required.” His hand rose to her ear, tucking a strand of hair behind it tenderly.
Cara imagined Diarmid doing the same, and instantly felt less like cringing—though infinitely more guilty. Sitric deserved a woman who craved his touch as she did Diarmid’s. He was too kind to be wasted on her.
“I’ve grown fond of you and your strange habits this past sennight,” he continued. “I wish to give you a gift, to celebrate our impending betrothal.”
“But I haven’t—” she paused, not wanting to speak of such intimate things with fifty other men within earshot.
His hand moved to her face, cradling it as Diarmid had when he’d come to her room at midnight. Before he’d pinned her against the wall and made her want him so badly she still hadn’t stopped.
“I know,” Sitric whispered. “But you will.”